Sonnet 215

In truth, you would beseech me endlessly,
And evermore heap guilt upon my breast.
A child of love you wished to thus conceive,
A secret trust that no one here might guess.
No obligation, none, you staunch did swear-
No ties, no times or labors to confound;
Just you, your child, and hope to here forbear,
And I a memory lost, my life unbound.
No simple matter to unyoke a heart,
And so to leave a shackled soul to roam;
Though I, in pleasured moment play my part,
Yet there condemn my conscience to a tomb.
A life so precious must spring forth from love,
Or I the dastard left, with naught to prove.

© Loubert S Suddaby. All Rights Reserved.

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